So I was chatting to Otter about their writing, and they expressed worry about the Bechdel Test. “I mean, if I have a male main character, should they… overhear a conversation? I mean, I could have them eavesdropping. Or maybe just walk in on one? But that would mean they’re in the room-”
“Hang on, hang on. They can be present during the conversation.”
“Oh! Ok. I thought it was a conversation without a man present.”
“…no. The bar is literally set low enough that it has to be a conversation.”
And there was a moment of silence as we contemplated exactly how low the bar was that just one conversation between two women is hard to hit.
“And it can’t be about a man?” Otter adds.
“So… an argument about who’s turn it is to wash up?” I got another ‘really?’ look. “Yeah. Seriously. Hey, have you come across the Sexy Lamp Test?”
“You have got to be joking.”
“And Sexy Lamp With Post-It. Ok, go look up Mako Mori. That’s a good one.”
Some more contemplation was had, possibly about the state of the world.
“So… what happens if you don’t meet the tests?”
“Nothing. It just depends if you want to your books to be bought by readers who don’t want to consider women as characters.”
Because life has been hectic, and sometimes I need a reminder to just relax.
Via Sebastien Millon
I have discovered Stephanie Bennett-Henry’s poetry, and it’s beautiful. You know when you find something you just want to have already read and devoured and keep inside somehow despite the fact it keeps just slipping out (because human and brain and memory) and it’s just…argh?
“Whatever happens, wherever you go, whatever you do, remember this: No one can take the fire out of your soul, the stars from your eyes, or the passion in your heart. Those are yours forever.” Stephanie Bennett-Henry ©2013
My writer’s block at the moment feels like the sand is that really hot, dry sand you get sometimes at the beach; the sand that slips and slides and just falls through your fingers when you pick it up.
So I can grasp a handful, but it just trickles through my fingers: and even if I did manage to get it into the bucket, I’d tip it out into my castle and it would just melt away again.
I’ve got the ideas; but I can’t put them together into anything. I can’t flesh out the bones: every word is a grain of sand picked up and put in the bucket, and then taken out again.
Here’s hoping the tide comes in, and then there’s some damp sand again!
Image via Pexels.